Fall (VIP 3)

John blinks like he forgot I’m not really his neighbor but just a pet sitter who will soon leave him. The groove between his brows grows, but he doesn’t say a word. A heavy silence descends over the table, and I don’t miss the look that passes between Hank and Corinne.

Corinne puts on a bright smile and turns to John. “Are you working on a new album?”

John starts, his fork halting halfway to his mouth. “You know who I am?”

“Jax Blackwood,” Corinne says in her matter-of-fact way. “Hank here is a big fan.”

“Corinne!” Hank hisses. His expression is mortified. I snicker, which earns me a hard glare.

“Well, it’s true,” Corinne insists, completely unfazed. “He has all your albums.”

I swear the table rattles as though kicked.

John, smartly, does not smile. “We’re between albums at the moment.” There isn’t an ounce of smugness in his tone, but I know he’s laughing on the inside. I can feel it humming along his skin. “I’ve been working on a few songs, but they aren’t ready for recording.”

Hank stares at his plate for a long moment before straightening and meeting John’s eyes. “Saw you at Madison Square Garden last summer. I could have done without the gyrating, but your voice has improved.”

A glint lights John’s eyes. “Oh, has it?”

“Mmm.” Hank cuts a piece of roast. “More soulful now, less showy.”

John blinks, and I can’t help it—I finally lose it and laugh.

“Sorry,” I say between snorts, “but Hank’s a fan. I’m dying.”

“Shut it, you,” Hank says without much heat. His lips twitch. “I like all sorts of music.”

John’s lips twitch as well. “I cannot lie. That was pretty much the shock of my year.”

After that, Hank drops his grumpy curmudgeon act and starts grilling John on music, which he happily rambles on about. We eat, and Corinne serves up pie, and John is the perfect guest. But I don’t miss the way he glances at me when he thinks I’m not looking. He’s upset and trying not to show it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

John

* * *

It’s three in the morning and the rain pelts the big picture window in Hank and Corinne’s den. I focus on this instead of the big-ass bar running under the mattress of the pull-out couch that’s digging into my back. I’ve slept on couches before—wasted and passed out, and sometimes waking up with a woman or two draped over me. This experience is so far removed from any of that, my old self would have never believed it. Old me would have left Stella with Hank and Corinne, and driven back to Manhattan in the rain.

Old me was a prat. Old me would have missed out on Stella entirely. I know I wouldn’t have bothered to notice all that she is.

No. Don’t think about Stella right now.

Better to watch water run in rivulets down the glass than imagine Stella all soft and tucked up in her bed somewhere upstairs.

I’m horny as hell. Even though it’s uncomfortable, I can get past horny. Horny can be dealt with by Mr. Helping Hand. My hand hasn’t been taking care of business this much since my youth when it felt as though I walked around with a stiffy all day long.

What I can’t shake is this push to seek Stella out just to be near her. Even though the rain hasn’t let up since we got here, I’d wanted to go back to the city so we could be alone. But it soon became clear that wasn’t happing. Fucking motorcycle. I should have called a car service. Then there was Corinne and Hank, who asked us to stay over, concerned for their girl’s safety. What could I say to that? They obviously mean a lot to Stella. I’d be a total ass to say no.

Taking the long hallway to the den, in the opposite direction that Stella went tonight, physically hurt. My balls and lower abs actually hurt. I’m off-balance and this damn bed is growing less and less comfortable.

Cursing, I flop onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. The only sound reaching my ears is the patter of rain and my own heart beating. Hell, she’s thinking about moving out here? When Stella had mentioned moving away from Manhattan, it cut the legs out from under me. I’ve deliberately pushed aside the fact that she’s a temporary neighbor who will be gone as soon as Killian and Libby return.

I don’t even know why I’m shitting over this; I’m hardly in New York for more than a few months at a time. I move around a lot.

So where does that leave me and Stella? Why hadn’t I thought about this before?

You were too busy having fun and wanting her.

“What the hell am I doing?”

My irritated whisper drifts through the darkness, highlighting the fact that I’m alone and talking to myself when I could be in Stella’s bed, talking to her, touching her. Except I’m in Hank’s house. Hank, who will absolutely cut off my balls if I lay a hand on Stella here. Which I’m not going to do. No, I’m going to be a good boy and keep my dick in my pants, even if it kills me.